


bite your tongue (don't make a scene, dear)

by myfavouritesweater



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Ian's got himself into some trouble, M/M, Mickey is a cop, it'll be alright in the end, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2126841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myfavouritesweater/pseuds/myfavouritesweater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this AU by Shioribatch<br/> <br/><i> Ian enlisted after Mickey’s wedding, but instead of going back to Chicago after quitting the army, he went to New York. Little did he know that a few months after he left Mickey left too. He dyed his hair, changed his identity and joined NYPD. When Ian goes off his meds once again, goes on a drug bender and completely fucks up, Mickey is the one sent to take care of the situation. It’s the first time they see each other in years. <i></i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey and Mandy leave it all behind.

Mickey Milkovich doesn't like to look back on his past; doesn't like to think about it, doesn't like to talk about it. Memories of growing up on the Southside weren't exactly tinged with the nostalgic glow of the past.

No, they were tinged with the metallic smell of blood and a feeling of inexplicable misery. They all come with a full-force punch to the gut, leaving him reeling and sick from his poisonous past.

Sometimes, he tries to find a positive recollection amongst all the thorns, but he quickly finds they're too painful. The bursts of light through the dark only serve to remind him how dark it could really get, especially when the light dimmed forever.

Ian left when Mickey needed him most. He saw Ian leaving as the last bit of good in his life draining out.

So he doesn't think about it. He gets up, he walks around, he forces himself to look to the future instead.

Mickey and Mandy moved to New York three months after his sham of a wedding. They planned it meticulously, right down to creating a new identity for themselves. It had been a long, hard process, especially with his criminal background, but the harsh abuse they'd both suffered was enough to convince the judge that, yes, they were eligible to make this escape.

They packed up what little he had, left in the middle of the night, and got on a greyhound to New York city. They spent the entire bus ride practicing for their new life, and trying to convince each other that this was going to be their escape.

By the time they arrived, Mickey and Mandy are Sam and Amber Parker, a brother and sister from upstate Chicago, looking for work in New York City.

They end up in a shitty little apartment above a liquor store in The Bronx, living on any and all money they've managed to scrape together. A life of crime isn't exactly a high paying job, though, and they needed to get their asses in gear to keep themselves alive.

Immediately, Mickey wants to join the NYPD. He feels like it's the step forward he needs, away from his murky past full of theft and pistol whipping. He can take down people like his disgusting father, and he'll finally be able to be proud of himself for something.

He discusses it with Mandy a few nights after they settled in. He's sat up against the bathtub, plastic wrap over his head to prevent the bleach in his hair from drying. Mandy's sat next to him, her own hair wrapped up.

"I been thinkin' about joining the NYPD," He says casually, looking down at his hands. He holds his breath slightly, waiting for a reply.

"Mickey Milkovich the jailbird wants to be a cop?" She laughs, eyebrows raised, but it's not malicious. Her voice is warm and soft. She knows how sensitive her brother is about these things.

"Sam Parker the do-gooder wants to be a cop," He corrects her with a smirk. She laughs.

"Alright, Sam Parker. If you want to do it, do it."

"You don't think it's stupid?" He asks. He looks at Mandy, searching her face for something to give away her amusement at all this, but all he sees is a reassuring smile.

"Course I think it's stupid," She shrugs. "But not as stupid as that shit show Kash n Grab."

She snorts with laughter, and Mickey tries to join her, but he can feel his heart seizing up. Cold sweat pops under his arms as his mind wanders back to his days in the Kash n Grab.

His immediate thought is the gunshot, ringing in his ears after all this time, but it's quickly replaced by the image of Ian, swimming into view above him and trying to hold him close. He's panicking, barking Mickey's name as his blood flows out onto the floor.

_"Hey! Look at me!"_

Mickey closes his eyes to stop the bile rising in his throat. The memory stings as it fades away, and he finds his hand subconsciously coming to rest over the scar on his thigh, as though it's going to bring some kind of relief from this pain inside.

"You okay, Mickey?" Mickey asks suddenly. Mickey's eyes jolt open, looking at Mandy wildly. She leans away from him a little, but he fakes a smile as best he can. He probably looks insane.

"Fine," He says, failing to sound bright. Mandy makes a distressed face, but he looks away. "Let's get this shit out of our hair."


	2. Complaint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's sent on a case.

It's been two and a half years since Mickey made the move to New York, and almost 6 months since he joined the NYPD. The process had been tough, especially due to his questionable background, but he'd explained the situation and tried not to punch the snotty interviewer in the face.

They were impressed with his story, like it was something out of a movie, and were happy to have a "real-life survivor" on their team. Mickey had rolled his eyes when he told Mandy, but he was obviously thrilled. Things were finally looking up.

He's almost completely used to his new identity now, very rarely slipping up and exposing his past. Occasionally he has to correct himself, pretend the other person has heard him wrong when he introduces himself as Mickey by accident, but it's getting less and less frequent. He and Mandy even remember to address each other as Sam and Amber in public, even if it does feel a little weird.

Mandy's found herself a steady job as an assistant for some big firm in Manhattan, and seems pretty much unstoppable when it comes to climbing the career ladder. They're both happier and healthier than they' d ever been in Chicago, not to mention safer. Mickey can leave the apartment in the morning for work and know that Mandy's in no danger being home alone. It feels good.

The only problem he's really found with living in New York is how slow it gets. He thought moving out here would be a constant rush of new and exciting people, but he thought wrong. He knew he'd glorified it a lot while he was dying to get out, but he didn't expect it to be this dead.

That's what he gets for thinking the whole of New York is like Times Square.

It's not like he's lonely. His colleagues are pretty close knit and thankfully welcomed Mickey straight away, despite his questionable finger tattoos and penchant for adding a swear into every sentence. He has a steady routine of going out with them every Friday night for drinks, among other engagements, and it's great, it's fine, but he hasn't found someone.

He gets laid, sure, but he's never managed to hold anything down. He doesn't want to accept the fact it's because he pushes everyone away, no matter how well they hit it off. Every time he even gets close to settling down to a second date his mind runs screaming, and he's forced to back out. He knows why. He doesn't want to address it, but he knows.

He still finds himself looking for Ian, albeit subconsciously. He'll see a redhead in a crowded bar and find his pulse racing, praying this time it's Ian for sure. He doesn't even know what he'd to say to him - it's been too long. He didn't fight when it was time to, and now it's too late.

\------

"Parker! Get your ass in here!"

Mickey exchanges a grimace with his colleague, Arthur, next to him, and stands up from his desk to head towards the Captain's office. He doesn't show it, but he's already itching to get on a new case.

He's usually chosen for the grittier, violence related cases, mostly because he's shown himself to be the best at handling them. His co-workers are desperate to know how he manages to deal so well in those situations, but he just shrugs and gives them a wry smile.

"So what's the case?" He asks, standing opposite the captain. He's a stern, uptight kind of guy, but he seems to like Mickey - probably because he's the only one who's still excited about his job.

"We've got some kind of disturbance down on Bryson street," He tells Mickey, handing him a piece of paper. "It shouldn't take too long." 

It's a transcript of a phone call; someone claiming to have heard gunshots and smashing glass in the apartment below theirs. Piece of cake.

"I'm on it, Sir," Mickey nods, backing out of the office and towards the elevator. He shouts a goodbye over his shoulder, a chorus of scattered replies thrown back at him, and sets off to Bryson Street.

\------

He finds the building almost immediately, sticking out like a sore thumb against all the houses. It's worn and dirty, like the whole area seems to be, but it's not half as bad as the places he's seen. He hears a gunshot in the distance, and finds himself flinching for the first time in years.

He jogs up to the front door and looks down at the slip he'd been given. _Apartment 13b_ is written in the familiar scrawl of the Captain, with a further notice to _buzz 12b if 13b won't answer, she made the call_. He does as he's told, and holds down the buzzer for 13b. No reply.

He tries at least 4 times, but still he receives nothing but an empty silence. Sighing, he buzzes for 12b instead, and this time, gets an almost immediate reply.

"Hello?" A fragile, female voice creaks out of the intercom system.

"Hello, ma'am, Officer Parker from NYPD here," He says in his least-threatening voice. That's been another huge change for him - interacting with the public without losing his patience, or swearing in every sentence.

"Oh, thank goodness!" The woman cries, "Come right on up!"

The door buzzes and Mickey reaches forward to heave it open, half-running up the stairs to apartment 12b. He can already hear the noises from the floor above, and half-considers heading straight up without checking in on 12b. He doesn't have time to make up his mind, though, because the door to 12b flies open, a tiny old lady stood in the doorway.

"Can you hear that?" She hisses, pointing to the ceiling. There's a particularly loud bang and she cowers slightly.

"Yes, I can," He says gently, but it doesn't seem to appease the woman at all. He eyes dart around, scanning the ceiling as though something might drop through. "When did the noises start?"

"Oh, I don't know," She says. She brings a hand to her face, shaking her head slightly. "He's been banging around up there for days, but I heard a gunshot this morning, and then he smashed his window."

"Do you have any information on who this guy is? Has he been like this before?"

"He hasn't been here too long. He seemed like such a sweet boy when he moved in," She says, flinching again at the ceiling.

"Do you know his name? His description?" He presses.

"I'm afraid I don't," She says gravely. "But I do know he's tall and muscular. Redhead, too."

"Thank you very much, Ma'am, I'll deal with the situation as best I can," He says, giving his best reassuring smile. She smiles fondly at him, reaching out to pat his arm softly.

He waits until she's shut the door before he bounds up the stairs, two at a time, ready to get to the bottom of this. If he's lucky, it'll be quick, and he can have him arrested and brought down to the station within half an hour. He might even get the afternoon off.

"NYPD, open up!" He yells, pounding on the door. No reply. "If you do not open this door, I will be forced to do it for you!"

He waits another 30 seconds, complete with more forceful knocking, before taking matters into his own hands. With three harsh blows to the door, he manages to burst into the room, stumbling slightly over the threshold. 

The apartment is a fucking mess. The curtains are drawn over glass-less windows, casting everything in a dim light, and the floor is littered with dirty plates and clothes. He looks at the filthy coffee table, two neat lines of white powder already lined up next to the empty beer cans. He shakes his head bitterly.

"NYPD!" He repeats, holding his gun out in front of him as he prowls the apartment. He crushes countless cigarette butts under his heavy boots, along with god knows what else, and he's about to start moving through into the other rooms when he hears a loud bang.

A dishevelled figure comes tumbling out of the bedroom, gun hanging limply from his hand. His clothes are ripped and stained, hanging off him slightly, a shock of red hair the only colour on him.

He fumbles for a minute, before aiming his own gun at Mickey with shaking hands. He looks at Mickey defiantly, even though his eyes seem far away. Mickey nearly drops his gun.

It's Ian.


	3. Saviour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey and Ian meet again for the first time in 3 years.

"Holy shit," He breathes without thinking, wind completely knocked out of him.

Ian's staring back at him, chest heaving with each frantic breath, gun wavering slightly in his grip. A look of confusion crosses his face as he studies Mickey's features, and Mickey quickly realises it's because Ian can't tell who is. He must look so different to the terrified young boy he'd been when he last saw Ian.

"What the fuck do you want?" Ian growls, and his voice sounds so different, so hollow, that it freezes Mickey to the core.

Suddenly, he doesn't know what he wants. He knows what he's here for. He knows he's supposed to arrest Ian and bring him down to the station, because that's his fucking job - but it's not what he wants.

"NYPD," He repeats harshly, because it's the only fucking thing that comes to his mind that isn't incoherent screaming. "Drop the fucking gun, Gallagher."

He knows he's fucked up before he can even finish talking. The old nickname drops from his lips without him meaning to, something in his brain whirring and buzzing with relief that he can finally address Ian again.

Except he can't just address Ian again. This isn't the south side and Mickey isn't a teenager anymore. This isn't another one of their fights, this isn't going to be solved with a beer and a fuck. Ian's got a gun in his hand and he doesn't know who Mickey is. He squints at Mickey in confusion.

"Wait, what?"

But then he sees something change in Ian's eyes, like something's snapped deep within him. The gun falls from his hands as realisation dawns on his face, but he doesn't look happy. His eyes are wide with something that looks awfully like betrayal.

Mickey keeps aiming the gun at Ian through the silence, but he can't take that wounded look on his face. His hands start shaking uncontrollably. He falters, swearing under his breath, and let's the gun fall to his side.

They just stand there, staring at each other, and Mickey can't think of a single thing to say to him. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. He sighs.

"What the fuck, Ian?" He says tiredly.

It's one of a million questions running through his mind, but it seems to sum up most of them. He's asking how he got into this mess, he's asking why he's behaving so awfully. He's asking what's happened to him.

He's asking why Ian never contacted him.

Ian doesn't look at him though; just stares at the gun in his hands and takes these awful, wracking breaths. It hurts Mickey just to look at him. He shuffles over to the filthy couch and sits down.

"Answer me!" Mickey demands, slamming his fist down onto a dresser next to him. It makes Ian jump slightly, but he looks up at Mickey.

"You're a cop now?" He says darkly. Mickey shifts uncomfortably.

"Yeah, I guess," He shrugs. Ian stares at him.

"You guess?" He repeats incredulously. His leg bounces up and down rapidly against the threadbare carpet. "You barge into my apartment with a fucking badge on and you guess you're a cop?"

"We had a complaint from a neighbor, there was concern for your health-"

"I don't give a fucking shit!" He yells, head spinning to look around the room wildly, as if candid fucking cameras are going to burst from the walls and declare it all a big joke.

Mickey tries not to let it show on his face, but he's fucking terrified. He knows Ian's outbursts, he can understand the anger and confusion at Mickey's sudden arrival in his life again, but there's something completely off. He's wired and jittery, jumping up from the couch to pace around the apartment for no apparent reason.

"Can you at least tell me what's going on here?" Mickey asks after a while, voice still biting. He can't help it. It's the only thing stopping him from sounding weak.

"What are you doing here, Mickey?" He says, completely disregarding Mickey's question. The anger seems to have melted from his voice, leaving distress behind. "And don't say NYPD again."

"I live here," He says.

"Live where?"

"Here, in the Bronx. Moved here a few years ago," He explains. Right after you left, he adds in his head, but he doesn't want Ian to know that.

"Why?"

"Why do you think? You may have the luxury of forgetting all about everything you left behind, but some of us are still trying to deal with the trauma."

"I haven't forgotten," He says in a small voice. Mickey's heart clenches.

"If I didn't get out of there I would have-" He stops abruptly, doesn't let himself finish. Truth be told, he doesn't know what he would have done, but he knows it's something he doesn't want to talk about.

"I know the feeling," Ian says, and it's supposed to be companionable, something akin to a joke, but there's no laughter in the air.

"What are you doing here?" Mickey asks, and Ian physically flinches.

"I - uh," He stutters. Mickey raises an eyebrow expectantly. "Um. Army didn't work out."

"No?"

"I couldn't take it," He says, shaking his head. Mickey can tell it's hard for him to talk about. He looks defeated and embarrassed. He guesses he understands why Ian did it, but it doesn't help the bitter feeling in his stomach.

"So you came to New York instead of coming home?" He says stiffly. Instead of coming back for me?

"I was in a bad place-"

"You don't think I was in a bad place?" He interrupts. Ian is watching him helplessly, but Mickey's too angry to care. "I was living in hell. You think I wanted that whore's baby? Think I wanted my father breathing down my fucking neck all the time? I barely made it out alive."

Ian doesn't say anything. He goldfishes for a moment, mouth opening and closing with nothing to say, but Mickey's not done.

"I waited for you," He says, cheeks flaring up with heat as he does so. He's never had to express his feelings before - he doesn't know if he can - but he's going to damn well try now. "I thought you were being over-dramatic, because God knows how much of a fucking drama queen you are. When I realised you weren't coming back, I started waiting for you to quit. I waited for them to find out you weren't old enough. I waited for a phone call, a letter, a fucking postcard, but I got nothing. Your family were going out of their minds, and I couldn't even join in, because what was I to you? I just had to get out of bed and pretend I wasn't holding my breath every time I heard a knock at the door."

When he stops, he realises he's panting, hand gripping the dresser. He feels so drained, so fucking stupid for saying it all out loud. He wants to take it back, but he can't, because he means every single word.

"I'm sorry," Ian says after a long while, but Mickey shakes his head.

"You were the last good thing left in my life and you fucking left."

He feels laid bare, and it feels fucking awful. He's spent so many years building up all these walls to have them torn down in less than five minutes, all because of Ian fucking Gallagher.

They stand there in painful silence, tension so high Mickey feels like he could scream. He doesn't want to say anything else.

"I wanted to come back," He says.

"Then why didn't you?" Mickey spits. His blood pressure must be through the fucking roof by now, judging by the blood roaring through his skull.

"I was scared nothing would be left for me when I did," Ian says. He takes a deep, shaky breath, and looks back up at Mickey. "I was in such a bad place, Mickey, you don't understand."

"Well then help me understand."

Ian shakes his head, "I can't right now."

"Will you ever be able to?" He grunts.

He doesn't answer. Mickey sighs. He's not going to get it out of Ian, and he's not sure if he wants to. Whatever the army did to him to turn him into this freaky-zombie-Ian was enough to put him off digging for answers for the rest of his life. He changes the subject.

"How did you end up in this mess?" He asks, gesturing around the room. He stares pointedly at the two lines of coke on the coffee table, but he doesn't say anything.

"I don't know," Ian whispers pathetically. "I've been so high, and my mind is all over the place, I just...I need to sort myself out."

Ian's hands are still shaking, and his eyes dart back and forth to the coke laid out on the table. Mickey can see what his life has become, and how bad it's going to get if he doesn't get Ian out of here as soon as he can.

"Well, you're not doing it here," He says, straightening up and folding his arms. Ian's face darkens again. "You're under arrest for drug possession and using a firearm with violent intent."

"It wasn't violent intent!" Ian splutters. Mickey shrugs.

"I have no proof of that. You're under arrest so I can question you thoroughly."

"Mickey, please," Ian begs.

For the first time since Mickey had arrived, he catches a glimpse of the old Ian through the shutters of his new life. He sounds just like he did when they were younger, begging Mickey not to fuck up this time, not to blow it all away.

This time, it's Ian's life on the line, and it makes all the difference. Mickey had never cared if he went down for anything, because he knew Ian could survive by himself while he was gone. Ian leaving for the army had proven to Mickey that he was basically nothing when Ian wasn't there. Though he had his life back on track now, he wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to keep Ian this time.

He thinks about it for less than 10 seconds before he says it out loud.

"I have one more option," He says. Ian nods encouragingly. "I take you home with me."

"What?" He asks, disbelief written all over his face.

"Mandy would kill me if she knew I arrested you," He lies. He'd also be lying if he said it didn't hurt when Ian's face lit up with the mention of Mandy's name.

"Mandy's here?" He says, smile spreading across his face.

"Course she is. Think I'd leave her behind?" He huffs menacingly.

"No," He says quickly. "I just - no."

"I'm packing a bag, we're leaving," Mickey says abruptly, shoving past Ian to get to his bedroom.

There are clothes strewn all over the floor, among other things, and a worn out old backpack hanging off the wardrobe door. He starts shoving things in haphazardly, not caring if Ian wants to take them or not.

When there's not enough room left in the back, he turns to the pillowcases. He grabs the first pillow and starts shaking it out, when something catches his eye.

Underneath the pillow, pressed flat against the bed, is a worn, grey tank top, with orange stitching around the arm holes.

He instantly recognises it, because it's his tank top. His favourite tank top that he'd worn for two summers straight, running around after Ian. He hadn't seen it since Ian left.

"Won't you, like, get into trouble for this?" Ian says suddenly, appearing in the doorway. Mickey scrambles to shove the t-shirt in the pillow case, before piling more shit on top. He takes a few breaths, before turning to Ian with a casual shrug and fake smug smile.

"Hell no," He says. "I may look squeaky clean now, but I did grow up on the south side. I know how to lie to the cops."


	4. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey takes Ian home.

Ian's biting his nails frantically and jumping at every sudden noise as they pull up outside the station. His eyes dart around and he slumps down in his seat, attempting to hide his flaming hair from view. His breathing is coming in short, sharp blasts through his nose, and it's starting to drive Mickey insane.

"Calm your tits, Gallagher, Christ," Mickey says, rolling his eyes. Ian shoots an anxious glare at him before looking back out the window, but Mickey doesn't have it in him to argue with him. "Look, stay here, don't talk to anyone, don't draw attention to yourself, and you'll be fine." A car horn honks somewhere down the street, and Ian physically twitches in his seat. "And don't look so fucking wired. Nobody knows who you are, you're not gonna get arrested."

He feels like he's a fucking hypocrite he feels just as shaky as Ian looks. The ride over was strained and silent, and Ian hadn't looked at him once. Mickey has spent years wishing he could talk to Ian and now nothing is coming out. He tells himself it's the shock.

He slides out of the drivers seat and shuts the door gently behind him, cursing himself silently for accommodating to Ian's twitchy behaviour. He looks over his shoulder when he gets to the door, and sees Ian's eyes watching him nervously.

It makes his stomach feel cold and he doesn't know why. He feels guilty and alone. The boy in the car is not the Ian that left him all those years ago.

He shakes his head and pushes the door open, promising himself to be as quick as he can.

Luckily, almost everyone's working at their own desks when he walks in, so he's not swept up in conversation like usual. He sees Arthur and Stefani in the break room, but looks away when they start waving him over, pretending he didn't see.

He walks straight into the Captain's office without knocking, but he's nerves are too fried to care. Thankfully, he just looks up from his computer expectantly.

  
"False alarm, sir," He says, hoping he sounds convincing. "Broken window was an accident, old lady was crazy."

"Often the case," The Captains nods, turning back to his computer. "Thanks anyway, good work."

Mickey nods and starts to walk out, but stops at the door. He turns around, biting his lip and fighting with himself. He needs to ask -

"Spit it out," The Captain says. Mickey holds his breath.

"Could I get the afternoon off? I know it's not policy, but my sister is-"

"I don't need to hear a bullshit excuse, Parker," He says, effectively cutting off Mickey's rambling breath. Mickey feels his cheeks heat up with panic.

"Fortunately for you, we're having a slow day. You can be on call for this afternoon."

"Thank you so much," He breathes, relief flooding through his body. The Captain hums in acknowledgement and waves a hand to shoo him out. Mickey doesn't need to be told twice. He turns on his heel and high tails it to the elevators.

"Hey, Sam! Wait!" Stefani calls, running over to him. Mickey prays the elevators will close before she reaches him, but he guesses he must have sinned to many times for God to care anymore, because suddenly, she's in the elevator with him.

"What's up?" He says. He hopes his voice doesn't sound too pissed off. He doesn't need her inquisitive gaze on him for 14 floors.

"You coming out tonight?" She asks, scrambling to tie her messy brown hair into a bun. She raises an eyebrow at him for approval, and he nods, wondering when his best friend became a tiny gun toting woman from Nebraska.

"Nah, I've got some stuff to do," He shrugs. She frowns and leans against him.

"That doesn't sound very exciting. Come out with us and we'll find you some one to do," She smirks, and he laughs despite himself.

His work friends know Mickey is gay, and he likes that. He likes that he's now in a world where he doesn't have to pretend to be straight in case his dad overhears. He likes that he doesn't have to worry he's going to get shot every time he thinks about kissing a dude in a club.

He hasn't told anyone about Ian, though. They can know he likes guys, but he doesn't want them to know he's loved one, because he finds it hard to admit it to himself. Even Mandy still believes they just worked together.

"I really can't, but I will next time," He says, holding out a pinky finger. A fucking pinky swear. Mickey Milkovich does pinky swears now.

"I'll hold you to that," She laughs, jumping out the elevator on the third floor. Mickey thanks god she didn't ride all the way down, or he'd have to explain the strange ginger man hiding in his car.

Speaking of which, he walks back out the front door to find Ian watching it like a hawk, eyes still and unmoving. When he spies Mickey, he sits up slightly, craning his neck to look. He doesn't smile, but he relaxes a bit, and looks ahead of him instead of around.

When he gets back in the car, Ian doesn't say anything, but he doesn't look out the window like he'd done previously. He does smile at Mickey when he starts up the engine, and continues watching his face as they lurch off down the street.

It's the first smile he's seen in 3 years.

  
\------

Mickey's apartment building isn't great, but it's home. The paint isn't peeling and all the lights work in the halls, and to most people that would be a given, but growing up on the Southside has given him low expectations in life. Everything mildly average seems like a god send to Mickey.

His door takes not only a key but also a harsh kick to the lower corner to open, and Mickey practically shines with pride when Ian follows him in.

It's small, with the door opening straight into the living room. His cramped little kitchen juts off the side, and a hallway in the back corner leads to a bathroom, opposite Mickey and Mandy's rooms. Mickey absolutely loves it.

"So this is it," Mickey says, striding into the kitchen. He dumps Ian's stuff on the table. Ian shuffles in hesitantly behind him.

Mickey starts making coffee straight away, not because he thinks either of them might want it, but because he needs his hands occupied before they start shaking with nerves.

He's already set them down on the table when he realizes he's made Ian's without asking how he wanted it. He can't believe he remembers something so trivial as black-with-two-sugars after all this time.

They sit in silence, opposite each other at Mickey's stained wooden table, and it's not awkward. Ian thanks him quietly as he brings the mug to his lips, and Mickey has to look away before he starts thinking too much.

He shows Ian around and finds himself talking easily, telling him how to work the shower and reminding him not to go in Mandy's room unless he's had a specific invitation. Ian's quiet but responsive, and eventually they end up on the couch, each on opposite ends, watching Friends re-runs until Mandy gets home.

He thinks he should probably text his sister and let her know that Ian's here, but she doesn't want her rushing home. He wants Ian to himself a little while longer.

He has a million questions running through his head and he doesn't know how it's going to be, but Ian's lounging comfortably, and he doesn't look like he wants to bolt anymore.

"You think any of the cast banged while filming?" Ian asks casually, not taking his eyes off the TV.

"Probably," He shrugs.

"I think so," He nods to himself, looking at Mickey for approval. Mickey gives a non committal grunt, and Ian smiles again. He keeps smiling. It's throwing Mickey off.

"So you want to talk about earlier?" Mickey asks, and the smiles melts off Ian's face faster than he's ever seen.

  
"No. I don't."

"Don't shoot, man, I'm just checking," Mickey says defensively, holding his hands up. Ian scowls and turns back to the TV.

They remain in silence for the duration of the episode, and when the titles come on for the next one, all his nerve endings feel like they're buzzing beneath his skin and he can't do anything about it. He feels an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch Ian, but he can't.

"So," Mickey says, breaking the silence. Ian doesn't look at him. "NYPD."

"Yeah, I know," Ian snorts bitterly.

"Can you believe that?"

"No, but I guess I'm going to have to," Ian huffs. Mickey looks down at his hands, subconsciously rubbing his FUCK tattoos with his thumb.

"I'm not called Mickey anymore, either," He continues, as though it's casual. Ian laughs next to him, thinking it's a joke.

"Sure, okay."

"No, really. I had it changed," Mickey insists, and Ian looks at him again, eyes narrowed, waiting to catch him out.

"To what?"

"Sam Parker?" He says, and he hates himself for letting it sound like more of a question than a statement, because he still craves Ian's approval above anyone else's. Ian doesn't say anything, just stares at him. "Mandy's Amber now, too."

"Amber," Ian says thoughtfully. "I like that."

The jealously from earlier flares up again. Any time Mickey mentions Mandy, it's like Mickey doesn't exist anymore. Ian's smiling, thinking about Mandy, and Mickey wants to punch the look off his face.

"What about Sam?" Mickey demands without thinking. He regrets it instantly. He sounds childish and desperate and the look Ian's giving him right now makes him feel weak.

"I don't know," Ian mutters. He looks away from Mickey again. "I just - you're Mickey."

He says it so quietly and so honestly that Mickey doesn't know what to do. His heart starts fluttering with the intimacy of it all, and he can feel his cheeks flushing.

"What the fuck does that mean?" He says defensively. Ian gives him a look of disbelief.

"What? You want me to spell it out for you?" Ian says, words spilling out in a rush. He stands up from the couch and glares down at Mickey. "It means...It means you're Southside! Southside and rough edges and black hair, for fuck's sake! You're Mickey Milkovich! This isn't you! You're a fucking cop! You used to strike fear into every fucking person in that town, and now you're - you're _blonde_!"

He stops at the window, hands clenched into fists by his side, and Mickey doesn't know what to say. Ian spins around, eyes scanning the apartment, but his eyes never land on Mickey. In the end, he heaves this awful, tired breath, and stalks into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.  
At least he didn't leave.

Mickey turns to look at the kitchen door, chewing his lip nervously. He hears one of the chairs scrape back against the floor, followed by the gentle creak of the wood when Ian sits down.

Fuck.

"This is my fucking house, what am I doing?" He mutters to himself, stomping across to the kitchen door, but he stops. Why does Ian still have all this control over him?

He hovers for at least a minute, before eventually sighing, and pushes open the door.

He walks over to the fridge without looking at Ian, and pulls out a beer. He thinks about getting one for Ian too, but decides he doesn't deserve one.

  
He leans against the counter, drinking steadily, staring at Ian's back. He's thinner, shoulders less broad and arms less muscular, but he's wearing the sweater his brother had given him when he was 16. He remembers peeling it off Ian's skin one night in the dugout.

He remembers everything, and that's his problem. He remembers Ian as this shining beacon of light in his life, a constant that was always going to be stronger than him, always going to get out of the shitty lives they were leading. He always put Ian on a pedestal, and now, for the first time in their lives, Ian's more fucked than he is.

"Ay, I haven't changed that much," He says bitterly. Ian doesn't respond.

He moves around the table to sit opposite Ian, trying to look him in the eye. Ian stares hard at the table, shaking his head.

"I've just missed so much of your life," He whispers, biting down on his bottom lip. Mickey can see the tears building in his eyes, and it makes him panic.

"Hey, man, don't cry," He says quickly. Ian sniffs. "I, uh...I've missed yours, too."

"You really haven't missed much, it's been a fucking mess," Ian says dismally.

For the second time today, Ian's mentioned how awful his life has been since he left, and it's driving Mickey mad. What the fuck happened to him that's damaged him so badly? Why is he a skinny shell of the ROTC teenager that left him? He was headed for greatness and now he's living in some squat, doing lines and god knows what else.

"Well," He pauses for a second, uncomfortable. He's never been very good at these deep conversations. He bites his tongue and says it anyway, because it's Ian. "You could tell me about it."

"I don't - I can't," He stutter, shaking his head. He looks up at Mickey. "I want to."

"When you're ready you can tell me about it."

Ian nods and looks back down at the table, tapping at the wooden surface for something to do. Mickey gets up and gives him a beer from the fridge, and Ian smiles up at him when he sets it down, so Mickey grins back.

He sits back down, leaning back in his chair and stealing glances at Ian when he thinks he isn't looking, but they catch each other's eyes a few times. It makes Mickey's heart race.

"Do you think we're ever going to be back to normal?" Ian asks suddenly.

"What? Fucking in freezers and hiding from my dad?" Mickey snorts. Ian laughs gently, but shakes his head, a more serious look on his face.

"C'mon, you know what I mean."

Mickey does know what he means, because it's been running through his mind non-stop since he'd first seen Ian.

But how can they go back to normal when normal was fucking each other and laughing afterwards, before leaving and pretending they hadn't seen each other? Normal was being absolutely terrified someone was going to kill him every time Ian left a hickey on his neck. 

"No, Ian. I don't think we can go back to normal."

"Then what can we go back to?" Ian asks desperately, and Mickey wants to laugh, it's such a stupid question.

But it's not really a stupid question, because he's right. They can't start all over again, because they know each other too well. They've seen too much of each other too often to pretend like none of this ever happened. 

Ian studies him for a second, searching for something Mickey knows he isn't going to find, because he's already shut himself down. 

"Yeah," Ian says eventually. "Yeah. I'd like to get back to that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really happy with this chapter, it's more of a filler than anything. Things will be more eventful in the next chapter. Hope you enjoyed it! xxxxx


	5. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mandy comes home.

Mickey manages to convince Ian to have a shower around the time Mandy gets home. He sits in the living room alone, eyes darting to stare at the door every time he hears so much as a creaking floor board, praying Ian doesn't get out before Mandy pushes through the door.

He chews on his thumbnail, leg bouncing restlessly as he tries to process what he's going to say to her.

Eventually, he hears the click in the lock, followed by the thud of a swift kick to the door, and Mandy comes strutting in, tossing her coat to the side and kicking off her shoes. Mickey shoots across the room like a bullet, cornering her against the wall.

"What the fuck, Mickey?" She yelps, stumbling backwards. Mickey just tightens the muscles in his arms on either side of her head, keeping her boxed in.

"Just - just wait a sec before you come in, yeah?" He grunts, looking over his shoulder. He strains his ears, and hears the water still running. He relaxes a little - he's got time.

"I'm already in, douchebag, get out my way!" She demands.

"Mandy, wait!" He pleads. She pushes uselessly against his chest, before noticing the distress on her brother's face. Her eyes soften slightly, and she tilts her head sympathetically.

"Did you spill soup all over the couch again?" She says gently. Mickey looks at her in disbelief.

"No, I didn't spill fucking soup on the couch!" He yells, voice higher than it should be. He hears the water shut off and panic rises in his veins.

"Jesus, calm down!"

"Mandy-"

"Get out of the way!" She shouts, fighting against him again, and Mickey has to bite the bullet now or Ian's going to emerge from the bathroom and Mandy's not going to know what's going on and -

"Gallagher's here," He spits out.

She stills against him. Her eyes look up to meet his, wary and disbelieving.

"Gallagher?" She says slowly, the name foreign yet familiar on her tongue. Mickey nods. "Which one?"

"Ian," He says, confused at the thought of bringing any other Gallagher home. Does she really think it'd be Lip?

And then Mandy's making a noise he's never heard before, something halfway between a scream and sob. She starts jumping up and down, fanning herself with her hands, and it's so unlike Mandy that all he can do is stare. She wraps her arms around him in a spontaneous hug, but she's already flying around the room by the time he thinks to hug her back.

"Where is he?" She shrieks, smiling so wide itcrinkles her eyes. He notices she's crying, tears dripping down her ecstatic face, and it plants something bitter in his stomach, something he can't explain.

"Bathroom," He says distractedly, watching the human whirlwind she'd just become.

Mandy knocks into him so forcefully as she sprints across the room that he actually falls over. He hears the squeak of the door as she bursts in, followed by enthusiastic screaming from both her and Ian.

Her name sounds like a prayer when it falls from Ian's lips, and he can picture the look on his face; warm and excited and free. He compares it to the glare he'd received this morning, the gun pointed at his head, and it makes him feel sick.

He slouches down the hall to the open bathroom door, leaning up against the door frame.

Ian and Mandy are holding each other against the sink, speaking loud and fast and incoherently to one another. The front of Mandy's dress is completely soaked from where it's been pressed against Ian's wet body, and there are dark hand prints up her back.

It takes a few seconds for him to realise Ian's naked, towel dropped to the floor in their excited haste. Most of his view is obscured by Mandy, but he can see the long line of his body, curving down to his toes.

His first thought isn't even attraction. It's shock, just pure shock to see him like this again. It reminds him of the sleepover, like most things do, and gives him this horrible mixture of fear, sadness, and a rush of protection that won't go away.

Suddenly, Mandy sees him stood in the doorway. She looks over her shoulder, mouth dropping open, as though he's caught them in the act.

"Oh my god, sorry Mickey!" She squeals, trying to hide Ian's body, and Ian laughs. He looks at him over the top of Mandy's head, and when their eyes meet, he gives him a strange look, saying something Mickey doesn't understand.

Hes out the door before Ian's even had the chance to call his name.

\------ Mickey stumbles back into the apartment just after 2am, brain swimming in alcohol and Ian still on his mind, even after he'd made out with some beautiful stranger to distract himself.

He'd called Stefani the moment he hit the pavement, and before he knew it, he was surrounded with friends in some skanky club, being handed drinks beneath the pulsing lights. He takes them willingly and knocks them back without a second thought. His friends cheer, and he's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

At one point, Stefani had cornered him and demanded to know what the problem was, but he just laughed, pulled her into a hug, and danced away. Two minutes later, he had a stranger's tongue in his mouth and a hand on his ass, and she stopped worrying after that.

He stops still in the living room, swaying slightly, staring at Ian's sleeping back. He's buried into the cushions and he looks so small, so delicate. Mickey feels like he's done something terrible to him, like he's cheated on him, even though it's been 3 years since they'd even touched.

All his other hook-ups had never made him feel anything other than proud of himself, and now one glimpse of the red head is making him want to confess all his sins.  
Ian's makes a tired little noise in his sleep, so he tiptoes as best he can down the hallway and into his bedroom.

\------

At 3am, Mickey's awoken by a tiny knock at the door, followed by a muffled whisper of his name. His eyes shoot open, still half drunk and dizzy from just waking up, and his first instinct is to be scared shitless. Who's going to knock on his door and whisper his name? How fucking creepy is that? It can't be Mandy, she just barges in and-

Ian.

He tries to ignore it for a moment, hoping he'll go away, but he just gets more persistent. Mickey's heart is pounding in his chest with every knock on the door and he doesn't want Ian in here, but he doesn't want him out there either, because then he might try Mandy's room, and whatever his problem is, he's sure as shit isn't going to let her sort it out.

"Wha' d'ya want?" He calls, and the door finally swings open, casting a beam of light from the bathroom onto his sleepy figure.

"Hi," Ian says, stood in the doorway. He looks shy and nervous, something hanging from his hand, but it's too bright for Mickey to concentrate on it. He tries to squint at it, but Ian hides it behind his back.

"Close the goddamn door," Mickey sighs, pulling the sheets over his eyes. Ian makes a defeated noise and suddenly the door is shut again, but when Mickey sits up to talk to him, Ian's gone. "Gallagher?"

The door opens again, just a crack this time, and Ian's dejected face appears in his room.

"What?"

Mickey can't help but laugh at him.

"I meant shut the door with you in the room, idiot."

"Oh," he says, and then giggles to himself. He moves into the room slightly, shuts the door, but stays at the foot of Mickey's bed.

"What's up?" Mickey asks, rubbing at his eyes sleepily with his fist. Ian shuffles on the spot.

"I can't sleep."

"You were asleep when I got home," Mickey points out. This only serves to make Ian look more distressed.

"I just -," He pauses, searching for the words. He's nervous and uncomfortable, and it's making Mickey nervous and uncomfortable. "I don't like it out there."

"Out where?" Mickey asks. Ian sighs.

"On the couch," He says. He hesitates for a minute. Mickey raises an eyebrow, prompting him. "Can I sleep in here?"

"Knock yourself out," Mickey shrugs, lying back down and pulling the blankets tighter around him. He waits for a moment, before realising there's no sound of movement from Ian.

He rolls over in bed, squinting into the darkness, and finds Ian fiddling around with the blanket from the foot of Mickey's bed. He watches in tired curiosity as Ian lays it out on the carpet and goes to lie down on top of it.

"The fuck are you doing?"

Ian stops, crouching over his make shift bed, staring at Mickey like a scolded child.

"Going to sleep?" He says warily.

"On the floor?"

"Where else?"

"Get up here," Mickey says.

He blames the alcohol in his blood for the sudden invitation to his bed, and briefly considers kicking him out again, making it all into a joke, but he doesn't, because he doesn't really want to do that.

They've done a lot of shit together since they'd first met, but they'd never slept together in the same bed, not properly.

On the night of that awful sleepover that was the beginning of the end of everything, they'd briefly fallen asleep together on the couch, Mickey's sticky body flat atop Ian's, their feet tangled together and a hand on Mickey's waist.

Mickey felt calm and still and safer than he'd ever felt in his life, and he remembers thinking about doing it again every night for a month after, after he didn't feel safe on his own anymore, but then Ian left, and Mickey escaped, and he had to let go of it.

So he's more than willing to let Ian crawl in between the sheets, even if they aren't touching, because he can feel the soft weight of Ian next to him, and his gentle, shallow breathing, and that's enough.

"Thanks," Ian whispers. The covers rustle as he gets comfortable.

He fumbles with his pillow for a while, and Mickey watches out of the corner of his eye as he stuffs whatever he's brought with him under it, pulling the corners taut over the top of it.

Mickey's about to ask about it, but then a foot brushes his leg, and his whole body catches fire.

Mickey lies flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Too scared to face Ian and too scared to shut him out, he's caught in between what he wants and what he thinks he needs. He wants to face him, wants to pull Ian into his chest and hold him until they forget about their time apart, but he doesn't, because he can't.

"I missed you," Ian says into the dark. It sends shivers up Mickey's spine.

"I missed you, too," He replies, too drunk or too emotional to pretend he didn't. The words fall out of his mouth without warrant; probably because they've been hanging from his lips since the day Ian left.

Ian sits up suddenly and looks down at him. There are tears in his eyes.

"I almost called," He says urgently. His hands are shaking again. "You have to believe me. Everyday, I picked up the phone, but I couldn't do it. I don't know why."

"I believe you," Mickey says quietly. Ian sniffs messily, tears plopping on to the sheets.

He starts wiping at his face aggressively, half-laughing like it's a joke, but Mickey knows they can't start like this. They can't pretend it never happened, because it did. Instead, he grabs Ian's hand and pulls it away from his face, holding it in his own. Ian stares at him.

They've never held hands before. Mickey can't help but wonder that if they did, would Ian have stayed? It's a stupid thought, but it weighs heavily on his mind. 

"In the end it had been so long I assumed you changed your number anyway," He blurts out, like he wasn't planning on saying it. Mickey's heart aches. He closes his eyes.

"I never changed it in case you ever called," He replies.

They're both silent for a while, Ian still sat above him, their hands still entwined. He feels heavy and light all at the same time, like everything is his life is simultaneously coming down on him, but sorting itself out.

"I'm so sorry, Mickey," Ian whispers. Mickey shakes his head.

"You don't have to be sorry. We all fuck up," He says, even though he doesn't know if he means it. He's spent years waiting for an apology from Ian, and now he's saying he doesn't need one? He does need one. Ian basically left him to die.

But then he looks at Ian, all wide, worried eyes and tears running down his cheeks, hanging on to his hand like a lifeline, and he wonders how on earth he could demand an apology from this broken boy. The Ian he's been mad at isn't here any more.

So he coaxes Ian back into lying down and wipes nervously at his tear-tracked face. He thanks god for the alcohol still buzzing in his system, because he doesn't know how he would have handled this sober; not because he doesn't want to deal with it, but because he might have been too harsh.

They lie parallel, Ian's hand still wrapped tightly in his, and for the first time in a long time, he feels whole.

Ian falls asleep next to him long before he manages to calm himself back into tiredness. He rolls over to face Ian, their hands lazily entwined between them. Ian's gentle breaths flutter against the hair falling into his eyes, and he smells like toothpaste and cigarette smoke and something that's so unmistakably Ian that he can convince himself everything is going to be fine.

 


	6. Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian, Mickey and Mandy go out together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry it's taken me so long to update! I've just started working and I've had a lot of papers in at school recently, I've barely had the time :( I hope this makes up for it, enjoy! xxxx

3 weeks later and things have barely changed, unless you count the full implications of Ian moving in, which is so easy Mickey and Mandy adjust pretty much automatically. He contributes to groceries, tidies up after himself and keeps himself busy, which Mickey thanks god for, even if he does get uncomfortable with the fact he doesn't know where Ian's going. He tells Mickey it's work, but he doesn't know if he believes him.

He still climbs into bed with Mickey every night. He would knock on the door at 2am every morning, sleepy face smiling hopefully, until Mickey finally told him to just start going to bed with him. They don't talk about it, don't address the fact this is probably the most intimate they've ever been, and they don't tell Mandy. She hasn't figured it out yet.

He and Ian are still just shooting the shit without talking about anything real. It's not forced conversation, and it's never been awkward, it's just never progressed any deeper than that encounter from the first night. They talk about their day and whatever shitty TV show they're watching, but they don't talk about themselves.

More than once, they've found themselves in a compromising position; staring at each other's mouths when they're talking, leaning up against each other in the kitchen, deliberately pressing their limbs together on the couch. Each time, Mickey can feel himself shaking with the tension, desperate to move it further or run away, he doesn't know.

One night, after Ian had pulled Mickey into his chest, he'd asked him what he thought about the two of them. Mickey pretended to be asleep.

Ian and Mandy still get excited to see each other everyday, and Mickey still gets jealous as fuck every time he sees them fawning over each other. He tries reasoning with himself, telling himself that it's still him that Ian comes to sleep with every night, but then they both explode into laughter, and Mickey only sees green.

One night, Mandy notices that Mickey blanches at the sight of the two of them entwined on the couch for the 20th time, and she's had enough. She follows him into the kitchen, finding he's already nursing a beer.

"What the hell is your problem?" She demands. Mickey looks startled for a moment, and Mandy searches his eyes, but eventually he looks away from her and shrugs.

"I don't know what your talking about," He mumbles from behind the bottle.

"Ian!" She hisses, checking over her shoulder to make sure he hasn't heard. "You bring him home unannounced after god knows how long, then act like it's a fucking burden every time you see him."

Mickey's mouth drops open a little, mouth gold fishing for something to say. Ian, a burden? Mandy's so blinded by her own shining adoration for Ian that she can't see Mickey's trying his hardest to hold his in. Sure, he's been a little blunt with him in front of Mandy, but acting like he's a burden? No fucking way.

"That's not it," He shakes his head. His mind is spinning. Does Ian think Mickey thinks he's a burden? The thought of Ian worrying about it makes him feel sick.

"So what is it? Hm?" She raises an eyebrow at Mickey, hand on her hip, and for a split second, she looks like their mom. It freaks him out.

"Just fuck off, Mandy, I'm tired," He says. He rubs at his forehead for good measure, but finds he actually needs to massage his temples, or he's going to explode.

"Yeah, well I'm tired of your shit, Mickey," She spits. He rolls his eyes, and without warning, she lurches forward and snatches the bottle from his grip. He makes a noise of protest but she silences him with a hand. "Start being nicer to Ian, or I swear to god, you'll be out of this apartment before him."

The door is slamming in his face before he's had time to make a comeback, and he's left empty handed and pissed off in the dim light. He has half a mind to go after her and start shit, but he thinks of Ian, smiling up at her as she sits back down, and changes his mind.

So they carry on like it, as though all they ever were colleagues at the Kash n Grab, chatting and threatening each other vaguely over the magazines. Mandy watches them sometimes as they talk, a strange look on her face, but she never asks.

Mickey wonders what she must think about it. For all she knew, they'd been distant friends at best, owing each other money and getting high together sometimes. He wonders what she thinks about him showing up one day with Ian, after neither of them had mentioned him for 2 years.

In the end, he decides to stop thinking about it, because he'd done enough worrying about what people thought before they'd lost each other last time, and he knows it can only lead to disaster.

\---------  
"You wanna do something tonight?"

Mickey's barely through the door and Ian and Mandy are already hovering around him, excited looks on their faces. He looks at them sceptically and throws his coat to the ground.

Truth is, no, he doesn't want to do something tonight. The Captain had been on his back all day and he'd arrested two guys for possession. He was tired, cranky, and ready for a hot shower. Judging from the glitter already smudged around Mandy's eyes, his two idiot roommates had other plans.

"Do what?" He grumps, pushing past them. They follow him to the couch, plopping down next to him with twin smiles. "Stop it!"

"I don't know, let's just go out!" Ian says, punching his arm gently, and Mickey curses himself for letting Ian change his mind so quickly.

He doesn't let them know that, though. He frowns at them, and Ian pouts at him, and eventually they're smiling at each other and Mickey's non-verbally agreed to go out with them. Ian throws his hands in the air and cheers, and Mandy gets up to dance with him.

Mickey watches from the couch, a feeling of inexplicable happiness spreading through his chest at the sight of his two favorite people in the world, dancing and laughing and trying to include him as though its 2012 and Mickey won't sneak into the Sox game with them.

So Mandy spends too long getting ready and Ian lies on Mickey's bed while he chooses an outfit, making non-committal comments here and there and generally chatting shit for an hour and a half. Mickey manages to force him to get changed into something nicer, although they both have to wrestle with the iron for ten minutes to try and smooth out some of the messy clothes Ian's brought with him.

Mickey digs through the old t-shirts and holey jeans in search for an outfit, half-heartedly looking for his old tank top he'd found under Ian's pillow. He emptied the pillow case out onto the bed, feigning interest, and found it didn't come up. Maybe he'd imagined it.

They roll out to one of the more high-end clubs around 11:30pm, Mandy and Ian deciding it was a special occasion, and they could all afford to splurge for one night. Mickey wants to ask Ian what he does, what allows him to spend a fortune on drinks but live in filth, but he leaves it for another night.

The music is pumping and he constantly has a drink in his hand, and for the first time since he'd arrived, the sight of Ian and Mandy curled up together was comforting, because it meant nobody else was going to get to Ian.

He finds himself taking an involuntary act of abstinence in Ian's presence, and although he has no strings attached to him and multiple people asking him for a drink, he keeps saying no. He sits with Ian and Mandy, or dances nearby them, and generally keeps to himself.

He can feel Ian's eyes on him as he moves to the music, catches them over his drink when he sits down. Ian doesn't say anything directly to him, just sips his drink nonchalantly and keeps their casual conversation flowing, but he knows what's going on.

At one point, a rather attractive young man places his hand low on Mickey's back as he whispers to him, and Ian coughs loudly behind them. Mickey turns to find Ian's knuckles turning white around his bottle, face pulled into a tight smile.

By then, however, they're both very drunk, and Mickey keeps sitting too close at their table and Ian keeps needing to whisper into his ear instead of talk to him across the table. They're giggly about it and not at all subtle, and Mandy just looks at them like their crazy, like she's been left out of some big joke. Mickey thinks he likes it like that.

After a while, Mandy disappears with someone she claims to know from work, hanging off his arm and smiling moonily up at him, and Mickey thinks he might recognise him if he wasn't so smashed and if it wasn't so dark. He waves anyway, and throws a vague greeting his way, as though they've met before. They're gone before he has time to put any real thought into it.

So now it's just Ian and Mickey.

"Wanna dance, tough guy?" He slurs, knocking Ian's shoulder with his own. Ian looks unsure but nods anyway, and they both start shuffling out of their booth, headed for the dance floor.

"I never even knew you liked dancing," Ian laughs. Mickey shrugs, grinning at him.

"Never got to do it until I got out here," He explains. "I mean, I can't dance, but I like to. Tell anyone back home and I'll rip your throat out."

Mickey leads him into the crowd of dancing bodies, right into the heart of the movement, and let's them both be jostled under the pulsing lights. Ian's taller than him, the height different bigger than he remembers, and it makes him a little dizzy.

Suddenly, Ian's hand is on his waist, pulling them closer together as move. One of his thighs slips between Ian's, and they're grinding together, eyes locked on each other in a way that should be uncomfortable, but it's not. It's intense and exciting and so incredibly beautiful that Mickey couldn't look away if he tried.

"Fuck, I still want you," Ian screams over the music. He stops moving so much, gripping Mickey's waist in his hands and holding him still.

"What?" Mickey yells back, even though he heard exactly right. Ian reaches up and pulls his face closer, bringing his lips to Mickey's ear.

"I never stopped thinking about you," He confesses, sending shivers down Mickey's spine. "I was so fucking happy when you found me."

"Gallagher, you're wasted," Mickey huffs dismissively, pushing away slightly. Ian holds him in place, looking at him very seriously. Mickey swallows.

"Wasted or not, I still fucking want you," He tells him. "Don't pretend you haven't felt it. Jesus, we've almost fucked at least twice."

"It's not that simple," Mickey shakes his head, trying to wriggle out of Ian's grip.

"Do you want me?" Ian asks. Mickey splutters for an answer, looking anywhere but at Ian.

"It's not that simple!" Mickey repeats.

"Do you?" He pushes. He has this look in his eye, angry and desperate and searching. Mickey can't hold it up anymore.

"Yes, I still fucking want you, okay?" He yells, and Ian's face lights up so quickly it hurts to look at him. He feels light headed and floaty, blood rushing through his ears and Ian the only solid thing in front of him. "God, you're all I've ever fucking wanted.

"Mickey-"

"Fuck off," He says, cutting Ian off. They stare at each other, unblinking, and that's it.

Ian surges down right as Mickey tilts his head up, and their lips are pressing together with so much force it almost hurts. He instantly opens his mouth to let Ian in, eyes nearly rolling back into his head at the sweet relief it brings him.

His hands are in Ian's hair and he has a pair of heavy hands on his hips, pulling him intoxicatingly close. They kiss for what seems like a lifetime, heart swelling fit to bust in his chest, lungs screaming for air, all while he tries to get more and more of Ian. He can't get enough.

Eventually, he manages to pull himself away, looking up at a glowing Ian. Disappointment crosses his face for a moment, and Mickey kisses it away.

"Let's get out of here," Mickey pants, grinning at Ian's swollen lips. Ian practically shines.

"Where to?" He asks excitedly. Mickey looks at him in amused bewilderment.

"Home, maybe?" He says slowly, as though Ian doesn't understand. Ian's face lights up as Mickey grabs his hand, jostling them both through the crowd and towards the door.

"Home," Ian repeats happily.

He doesn't let go of Mickey's hand.


	7. Home

They arrive home twenty minutes later, hands still entwined as Mickey fumbles with the lock. Ian's groping anything he can through Mickey's clothes, and Mickey's so into it he wouldn't mind getting to it right there.

In the end, though, he has to push Ian away away slightly to wrestle with the doorknob. Ian presses himself flush against Mickey's back, arms winding around his waist and lips nipping at his neck. Mickey can feel Ian's already hardening cock pressing into the small of his back.

"Jesus, Gallagher," He mutters. This only serves to spur Ian on. They practically collapse over the threshold, both of them piled on the floor by the time the door has slammed shut behind them.

Ian holds Mickey to the ground, two strong thighs straddling his hips, two hand pinning his wrists above his head. In true Milkovich style, he wriggles a little, half-heartedly trying to fight him off, but then Ian leans forward and starts sucking a hickey into his neck, and everything goes fuzzy around the edges.

The familiarity of it all is so strong it's almost unbelievable. He must have done this countless times with nameless guys since Ian left, but with just a flick of his tongue against the shell of Mickey's ear, it's like he never left the Southside. Ian instantly takes him back to sweaty summer nights in the dugouts, pressing into each other harder and faster because time was always slipping through their fingers.

The thought leaves him warm and nostalgic and impossibly hard all at the same time.

"Gallagher, wait," He chokes out. Ian pulls away, concern and disappointment swimming in his lust-filled eyes.

"What is it?" He asks, voice all breathy and hot against his face. Mickey struggles to keep his eyes open.

"Kiss me again," He breathes, face flushing. Ian doesn't need to be told twice.

He swoops down straight away, lips melting into Mickey's effortlessly.

He'd never been particularly big on kissing. Before Ian, he'd never kissed anyone. He didn't see the point. If he was going to fuck someone, he was going to fuck someone - he wasn't going to fall in love with them.

So kissing Ian was a pretty huge fucking step for him. He'd done it to prove to Ian that he liked him, and that he was far better for him than fucking Ned. Their first kiss was short and sweet, dry lips crushed against each other in the front seat of that old van, and it shouldn't have been memorable, but it burnt his lips for days.

He spent a ridiculous amount of time smiling about it, heart racing at the memory, until Iggy demanded to know what he was so fucking happy for, and he had to stop.  
He'd always thought that was why they didn't kiss. Not being it was too gay, which was his front, but because he found it all too overwhelming. Before Ian had left, they'd kissed each other maybe 5 times, and each time he started kissing Ian, he didn't know if he could stop.

His favourite memory, the one he thinks about most when he wonders if it was all real, was when they made out for at least half an hour before they fucked, until Mickey's jaw ached and Ian asked if they could stop. He'd nodded dizzily at let Ian fuck him face to face, arms locked loosely around his freckly neck.

He didn't really like to think about their last kiss in Chicago, because it reminded him of his first kiss with someone else.

He didn't really kiss people out here in New York, especially after making out with some guy in a dirty club on his first week out here and finding it did nothing for him. Occasionally, if he was really drunk or he brought a guy home with him, he'd kiss lazily for a while, but it was never memorable.

So having Ian's lips back on his again was like mainlining cocaine straight into his heart. In the club, under the flashing lights and shuddering music, kissing Ian had been incredible, but having him here in his arms was a whole new fucking world.

His whole body catches fire and he can't keep himself from moving and writhing beneath Ian, can't stop grabbing at every inch of him or stroking his sides or pulling him closer. Ian keeps moaning into his mouth and Mickey keeps responding even louder, until they're both sweaty messes on the living room floor, holding each other's faces and drinking each other in.

He doesn't even notice just how hard he is until Ian sits up to pull his shirt over his head. Mickey reaches up to splay his fingers across Ian's milky white chest almost immediately, touching him as though he's going to fade away if he doesn't. He's a lot thinner than Mickey remembers, and when Mickey dances his fingers down to the waistband of Ian's jeans, he breathes in sharply, showcasing each neat line of his ribs.

He'll deal with that tomorrow.

For now, he's scrambling out of his own clothes, both of them trying to assist each other through broken kisses and accidental friction, until they're down to their underwear, rubbing against each other in the dim light.

"Bedroom," Ian grunts as he thrusts their tented underwear against each other one last time. It takes Mickey a moment to process what he said, but then the heat from above him is gone, and Ian's stumbling away from him and down the hall.

Mickey doesn't know if he's still drunk or just high on Ian as he forces himself up off the floor, staggering through their abandoned clothes on the way to the bedroom.  
When he arrives at the bedroom doorway, there's underwear abandoned at his feet, and Ian is already naked, spread out across the sheets.

"Fuck," Mickey breathes.

Ian smirks at him, reaching down to take himself in his hand. He starts working himself slowly, maintaining eye contact with Mickey. Mickey resists the urge to start touching himself, eyes threatening to roll back into his head at the sight, and instead crosses the room and crawls across the bed to Ian.

He clambers up the bed until he's hovering over the top of Ian, arms and knees braced so that they're not touching. Ian swallows, continuing to pump his hand slowly.

"You fucking kidding me, man?" He huffs in Ian's ear. Ian in turn lets out a breathy laugh, quickly melting into a moan when Mickey reaches down between them and replaces Ian's hand with his own.

The face Ian makes is probably the most beautiful thing Mickey's seen in a long time. His eyes flutter shut and his mouth parts slightly, eyelashes long and thick against his cheekbones. Mickey flicks his wrist in a way that he always used to, too aroused to be embarrassed that he remembers, and Ian gives a grateful moan.

"Jesus Christ, I forgot about that," He groans, absent mindedly running his hand up and down Mickey's arm, the other fisted in the sheets.

"Good job I didn't, huh?"

"I still think about you when I jerk off," He admits suddenly, and Mickey's hand falters slightly. "Never as good as this."

Mickey stares at Ian, who looks almost nervous after his confession. He knows the comment was made in lust, and probably isn't even true, but the notion that Ian still thinks about him is baffling to him. It makes his heart quicken in his chest, imagining Ian imagining him.

He leans down and kisses him, letting go of Ian's cock to cup his face instead. Ian whines slightly at the loss of contact, but almost immediately, his own hands come up to rest on Mickey's cheeks. It's uncomfortable and he's trying to balance himself so as not to crush Ian, but it's the only thing he can think of that sums up how he feels. Eventually, Mickey lowers himself until he's basically lay on Ian's chest, hips pressed against one another.

Pretty soon, they both grow aware of their hard cocks trapped between their stomachs, sliding against each other between them, and the kiss has turned into frantic pants against open mouths.

"Fuck me," He grunts, rolling his hips against Ian's. "I need to feel it. I need to feel you inside me."

"Jesus," Ian hisses. Mickey climbs off him, leaning off the bed to grab the lube and condoms from his bedside drawer. Ian props himself up on one elbow, watching Mickey wriggle around appreciatively.

When he turns around again, he places his palm on Ian's chest and pushes him until he's sat up against the headboard, legs crossed. He then climbs into Ian's lap, knees straddling his hips, chests pressed together. Ian instantly wraps his arms around the brunet, pulling their chests close together and kissing him deeply.

Mickey's far too impatient for that - he practically launches the bottle of lube at Ian's head.

"What, no blow job?" Ian smirks. Mickey glares at him. "Straight into fucking?"

"When have we ever not been straight into fucking, huh? I'll suck you off after," Mickey bargains, and Ian grins at him, cheeks flushing.

He uncaps the bottle and pours the liquid onto his fingers. Mickey almost salivates at the sight of it, biting his lip as Ian's hand disappears from view. He hesitates for a moment, until he feels the cool touch of Ian's fingers at his hole. He hisses out a harsh breath, leaning forward to bury his face in Ian's neck.

Pretty soon, Ian's got three fingers inside of him and he's panting wetly against Ian's neck. Ian's got one strong arm around his waist, and Mickey is grappling at Ian's back desperately, pulling him away from the headboard and thrusting down onto his fingers eagerly, seeking more friction.

"I'm ready, just fuck me," He pants. Ian removes his fingers immediately and Mickey whines at the loss of contact, before he feels the head of Ian's dick press up against his ass. "Oh my god."

"I missed this so much," Ian says in a rush, "God, I missed you so much."

And then he's pushing inside Mickey, and they're both moaning into each other's mouths and trying to hold onto as much of each other as they can. Ian's going slow, pushing in gradually before he bottoms out, and Mickey doesn't even mind.

If it were three years earlier, he would have smacked Ian upside the head and tried to slam his hips down. Then again, if it were three years earlier, they wouldn't be holding each other or kissing like the world was going to end - and Mickey certainly wouldn't be riding Ian. Too intimate, by 17 year old Mickey standards.

He's surprised at how familiar it all is to him, how he feels with Ian that he doesn't with anyone else. It's like the first time and the last time all at once, frantic and passionate and so fucking good that he can barely contain himself.

Suddenly, Ian's shifting, lifting Mickey up without pulling out and laying them both down on the bed, Mickey flat on his back. He wraps his legs around Ian's hips and his arms around his shoulders, and Ian starts thrusting with determination now, reaching between them to jerk Mickey off in time with his thrusts.

"Ian," Mickey gasps involuntarily, digging his fingernails into his back. Ian makes a strangled noise that almost sounds like his name, but everything is turning white, and he can feel his orgasm building.

"Say my name again," Ian groans, pressing his face against Mickey's collarbone.

"Ian," Mickey whines in a voice he's never heard himself use before.

"Oh my god, yes," Ian mutters, and then it's all over.

Mickey comes so hard he's practically seeing stars, an awful, unabashed moan spilling from his lips. He throws his head back, arching his back up off the bed, and Ian comes moments later, crushing his lips against Mickey's.

They lie together, breathing heavily against each other's faces, Ian collapsed on top of Mickey.

"Fuuuck," Mickey pants, grin spreading across his face. He peers down at Ian, a similar look of exhausted awe gracing his features. 

"3 years," Ian says. 

"Don't remind me," Mickey says, and it's supposed to come out as a laugh, but it sounds too sincere. "3 years we coulda been doing that."

"3 years we could've been doing everything," Ian says quietly. 

"Everything?"

"Things couples do, I don't know," Ian shrugs. He lays his head back down on Mickey's chest, tracing his fingers along one of his biceps. "Imagine where we'd be now if we'd have stayed together."

"This ain't exactly the sexiest pillow talk, man," Mickey jokes, trying to lighten the mood, and he wants to kiss the sky when he hears Ian laugh. 

"Fuck off, you know what I mean," Ian smiles, rolling off Mickey to lay next to him. He turns his head to look at Mickey, eyes soft with his smile. "Sorry things turned out the way they did."

"Hey, looks like things turned out pretty sweet," Mickey argues, indicating the sheets kicked off the bed and the cum streaked up and down their chests. Ian snickers and looks up at the ceiling. _  
_

"Yeah, I guess they did," He whispers.

"It's not over yet, Gallagher," Mickey tells him. "We got time to turn things out."

"We got time for that blowjob?" Ian says cheekily, raising an eyebrow. Mickey rolls his eyes.

Ian laughs as Mickey rolls over, and runs his hands through Mickey's hair when he starts pressing kisses down Ian's chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh, sorry this chapter was a bit of a mess! ive never really done sex scenes before, so im sorry if this was painful to read hahaha!  
> i just wanted to say thank you for the kudos and the lovely comments i have been receiving, it means a lot!! xxxxx


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